


Somewhere Between

by Romany



Category: DCU (Comics), Smallville
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Series, Pre-Crisis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2007-07-10
Updated: 2007-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-09 09:29:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1977753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romany/pseuds/Romany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark gets a phone call from Dick. He goes to New York. They hang out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Clark sits down on his couch with his bag of Thai take-out, takes off his glasses, flips open his laptop. He has a long night ahead of him, research. Outside the Metropolis skies fill with rain.

The phone rings.

"Hey big guy," Dick says when he picks up. "Busy?"

Clark has a mouthful of noodles, washes those quickly down with a swallow from his bottle of chai. "Supposed to be," he says. "What's up?"

"I could really use a cup of coffee," Dick says. "Tough week." There's a sigh hidden in those words, a false cheer.

Clark closes his file on the Masterson article. Lois will have his hide if he doesn't show up with some wonderful insight first thing in the morning. But then again, it doesn't take much for her to chew him out these days. Nothing a double tall latte won't cure though.

"Okay," Clark says. "Where?" He opens his browser.

"Zani's on Amsterdam near Columbia. You know it?"

"Can you give me a cross-street?"

Dick pauses, laughs. "Clark, are you mapquesting?"

"Uh, yeah," he says. Mapquest gives him twenty-five possibilities for coffee shops when Zani's comes up 'not found'. "A walking Thomas Guide I'm not. I don't know New York all that well."

"I just thought..."

"Hey, I'm not a homing pigeon!"

"There's an image." Dick laughs again, the sound of traffic behind him. A horn blares. Someone curses in Farsi.

"You're not driving are you?" Clark says, concerned.

"A car. In New York," Dick says. "And I'd park it where? Naw, just walking around, getting my dose of exhaust fumes."

"Dick?" Clark says, "Could you put the phone to your chest for a few seconds?"

On the other end, a cut off chortle, but then the sound of leather and then cotton, finally the sound of a heartbeat, clear, strong, unique and familiar and unmistakable. Clark listens to the rhythm of it. The phone pulls away. "Got it?" Dick whispers.

"Yeah," Clark says, eyes closed, the pattern sealed and beckoning.

"Okay, pigeon, home in. See you in ten."

 

Nine minutes later, Clark opens the door at Zani's, the shop long and narrow, booths on one side, counter on the other. He spies the leather jacket he heard brush away from the heartbeat on the phone. Dick sits at a booth near the back, one lean leg splayed out to the aisle. He's let his hair grow out a bit, dark soft waves curling around his ear. Clark sits opposite, the vinyl sighing.

Dick gives him a slow grin. "Look who decided to dress down."

Clark had left his glasses on the coffee table, changed into an old pair of jeans, t-shirt, retrieved his old leather jacket from the back of the closet. Wet his hair, fingercombed the waves. Still Clark, but a Clark that he hasn't been for a long time.

"I wanted to blend in," he says.

"You blend in nice," Dick says, blue eyes appraising. "Haven't seen you like this in a while. I should call you...?" And he lets the question hover.

"Clark's fine," he says.

"You look..."

"What?"

"Young," Dick says. "I forget that you're closer to my age than his sometimes."

Not sure what to say to that, Clark reaches for a menu even though he had gobbled up the rest of his noodles in a hurry before changing, brushed his teeth.

"No," Dick says. "It's good. You look good, Clark." He laughs. "I, on the other hand, probably look like shit."

He's seen Dick bruised and bleeding, days without sleep, bags of worry under his eyes. None of that is here now. A certain tension, yes, he thrums with it, glows. "Despite your, uh, rough week, you look good, Dick."

"Liar," Dick says, low and grinning, chin in hand. Clark can count on one hand the number of people who can call him that without instilling anger, guilt, both. Dick is one.

"So this place..." Clark says, fiddling with the menu.

"Kind of old school," Dick says, leaning back. "But you can't beat it for the atmosphere. Plus I kind of wanted to avoid the whole university crowd tonight."

"And the other?" Clark says, not needing to add Titans to the end of that.

"Yeah, them too."

Dick smiles as he says this, but Clark can see the tension in the arm that only appears to be relaxing along the wooden top of the booth bench. For a Thursday night, the place is relatively uncrowded. A young couple sits at the counter, leaning slightly into each other. Only three other booths are occupied. The waitress shouts something to the cook in Albanian and comes around the counter to take their order.

"Just coffee, hon," Dick says, smiling slow and looking up. "Okay, add two orders of llokume too. My friend's got a bit of a sweet tooth, and I think he'll die of bliss when he tastes what you've got here."

Dick winks, sly and sure, much more worldly and confident than eighteen should imply. Jehona, at least according to her plastic blue name tag pinned to her shirt, glances quickly at Clark and back at Dick. She and Clark blush at the same time.

"Sure thing," she says, smiling, just a hint of Albanian in her upper west side accent. She walks back to the counter with a little more sway in her hips than she had before. Jehona looks back and catches Clark looking. She smiles, inviting. Clark shifts, uncomfortable.

"She likes you," Dick says with a smirk. "But what's not to like?"

"You are a horrible flirt," Clark says, slightly appalled.

"No, I'm a good one," he says, the smile finally reaching his brown eyes. His arm relaxes a bit. "I'm allowed."

"So things are going well with Kory?"

"Yeah, one of the few constants in my life." The smile fades and then returns when Jehona brings the coffee and dessert.

She places a small cut glass bowl with a silver spoon on the table as well. "For your sweet tooth," she says. "Albanian sugar."

"Thank you," Clark says, a furtive smile.

Dick raises an eyebrow and one corner of his mouth. "That just for him? I'm not going to get my hand slapped if I take some too?"

Jehona blushes, adjusts her tray. "It's for both of you," she says.

"Good to know. Thanks!" He clicks his tongue, winks and reaches for the spoon.

"Just let me know if you two need anything else." She sashays back to the counter.

"You usually take it black," Clark says as Dick lets the sugar fall, stirs.

"Life's an adventure, Clark. What can I say?" He sips his coffee, looks out the window, lights and traffic. "No, Kory and I are good. Like I said, I'm allowed to flirt." Dick still gazes out the window, sips his coffee again. He doesn't pick up his fork. "There's a few things I'm not allowed anymore."

"Is this about...?"

"Yeah," Dick says, soft. "Growing up sucks more than I thought it would. I'm not fourteen anymore, you know?"

Fourteen. How old Dick had been when Clark met him. How old Dick had been when Clark met Bruce.

"Have you called him?"

Dick turns, puts his coffee down. He picks at his dessert. "A few times. Now ask if he's called me."

Clark eats a bit, lets the almonds roll on his tongue. "Sounds like I don't have to," he says.

Dick laughs, quiet and hard and bitter. "Yeah, just leave your suit at the door. Have a nice life, Dick."

"I don't think it happened quite like that." Clark spoons one, two, three times into his coffee, stirs, never looking away from Dick.

"No, that would have been too easy. Why pluck a bird quick when you can do it slow?" He looks Clark in the eye. "He's got a bit of a thing for pain, you know. I used to think he couldn't help it. Now..."

Clark reaches over, takes Dick's hand in his, firm. "Dick, just stop. He loves you."

A grin breaks out, turns into a harsh, low laugh, but he squeezes Clark's hand in return. Gripping, holding onto something. "You used the "L" word. Careful, Clark, that's a bad word in our house. You'd get your mouth washed out with soap for that."

Clark notices the possessive and present tense of that, but decides not to press it. Dick doesn't need to be reminded where he lives and where he's from. Where he's likely to return.

"It's not a bad word," he says instead.

"Easy for you to say." Dick laughs, a bad joke and much too funny, pulls his hand away. Clark lets him.

They eat for a while in silence, drink their coffee. Jehona comes by and gives them both refills.

"That's what he likes and hates about you," Dick says, putting his fork down. "That it comes so easy."

Clark looks up from his coffee, startled. "Huh?"

Dick leans forward, voice low. "You don't quite fit, Clark. Not in his world. You've noticed. You're not stupid even though he wishes you were."

Clark looks down at his coffee. "You've got a right to be bitter," he says. "But you should see beyond that. This isn't like you."

"Isn't it?" He drums his fingers on the table, even rhythm. "I...I don't know who I am anymore, Clark. I had a job. Now I don't."

"Get a new one."

Now Dick just stares at him, incredulous. "Anyone else and I'd tell them to fuck off. But you..."

Clark shrugs. "You called me," he says.

A slow nod. "Yeah. Yeah, I did."

Clark finishes his llokume, washes the mint away with the last of his coffee. "We can't really talk about this here."

"You're right." Dick signals for the check. He pays, grins when he rips off the guest receipt, hands it to Clark. "You score."

Clark looks at it, reddens all the way to his collar. On the back of the slim receipt, hurriedly scrawled is 'Sweet Tooth', 'Jehona' and a number. He looks up, waves to the counter and Jehona waves back from the register. "Call me," she mouths.

Dick stands. "You should," he whispers. "Before..."

"Before what?" Clark says as they head for the door.

Dick pauses in the doorframe, turns. "Forget it," he says. "You never would." In a whisper, he adds, "Thank God."

Clark blinks but doesn't ask.

"Come on," Dick says, bouncing and turning on the sidewalk, graceful and finding his true laugh again. "Let's go hit the arcade."

"You're on!" Clark laughs as Dick sprints away and he chases him in human time. He catches him, finally, about the waist, breathy. The run longer and harder than it should have been.

"You cheated somehow," Clark says, arm slipping up to Dick's shoulder. They stop, wait for the traffic light, bodies around them.

"I'm not a cheater," Dick says, soft. He twirls inside, wraps his arms around Clark's neck. "But I could use a friend," he whispers in Clark's ear.

"Hey, I'm here," Clark whispers back, returns the embrace, turns it into a hug, necessary, fierce, gentle. The pedestrian light whistles, bodies part around them, move forward. They don't.

Above them, Clark thinks he hears the swing of line, a cape billowing, boots on a rooftop.

Dick pulls away, thrusts his hands in his pockets, storms against the warning of the red blinking hand across the street. One long stride and then two, Clark catches up.

"Shit," Dick says, almost a growl. "It figures."

When they reach the opposite corner, Dick swirls, shouts into the busy night air. "Just let it go! Jesus, what is wrong with you?"

Clark puts his hand on his shoulder. "Do you want me to...?"

"Not unless you're going to..." He swirls and shouts again, "...kick his ass!"

"I can't do that, Dick. I'm not picking sides. I could go talk to him though."

"Nuh uh, Clark," Dick says. He shouts again. "That's what he wants!"

Clark stands there, unsure. "Then maybe you should..."

"Maybe he should learn how to pick up a damn phone," Dick says, muttering. "Had it, Clark. Just had it."

The boots above and across from them, in shadow but discernable to the searching eye, don't move.

"Go home!" Dick shouts. He turns to Clark, puts a purposeful arm around his shoulder. "Come on, there's a pinball machine with our name on it."

Clark looks over his shoulder, once, then walks down the street with Dick, arm wrapping around him.

Dick puts his free hand up, middle finger extended, flips the shadows off. He doesn't look back.

They walk three blocks before Clark hears the boots retreat.


	2. Chapter 2

“I can’t believe you hip-checked me,” Clark laughs as Dick fumbles for the keys to his apartment. He opens the door.

“I thought I’d save the pinball machine a little humiliation,” Dick says, entering. “Besides, it was hungry for another few quarters. I could feel it.”

“You mean you were bored and wanted me to throw the game.”

Dick opens the door, small apartment, four flight walk-up, starving student New York chic, mismatched furniture.

Just a pause and a quarter-turn, a wistful smile and whisper. “You’re never boring, Clark.”

“That’s not what Br…”

Dick sighs, flips a lamp switch. “He never says, he implies. And he wouldn’t have implied it if he came close to thinking it true.” He walks over to the couch, leans forward, one knee dipping into the upholstery, and starts flipping through CD’s. “He…don’t you know how to read him by now?”

Clark closes the door behind him, stands in the entry. “Sometimes. It’s usually the equivalent of ‘get off my lawn!’ and ‘I can barely tolerate your idiocy’ with him.

Dick puts in a CD. Something alternative and edgy but soft fills the room. Clark just feels old. He has no idea who this is. But then again, he was never hip to begin with.

“Then you don’t,” Dick says. “Because…” He lets the sentence die off. His face changes to a mischievous grin. “Beer?”

“What?”

“I’ve got a six-pack in the fridge.”

He opens his mouth to lecture about underage drinking, but Dick has wrestled with much worse things than alcohol. So ‘okay’ pops out of his mouth instead. It takes about a keg and a half to get Clark buzzed. He knows this. He tried it once at MetU. One beer isn’t going to hurt him. And he’d keep an eye on Dick if he went for a second. Okay, maybe if he went for a third. Dick’s had a hard day and he hasn’t even come close to talking about it yet.

Clark sits on the couch, takes his boots off before he puts his feet on the coffee table. He stares at the blank TV and wonders if he should pick up the remote. The music, full of youthful pain and the melody of self-importance, stops him.

Dick returns with two open bottles. “Mi casa, su casa,” he says, eyeing Clark’s white socks, and hands him a bottle.

He sits, takes off his own boots, a fluid motion, and puts his feet next to Clark’s. He raises his bottle and Clark gently clinks it with his own. Dick tilts his head back and drinks. Clark takes a small sip from his.

Dick shifts, moves his arm until it drapes companionably over Clark’s shoulder.

“Hey, big guy,” he says soft. “Thanks for coming over.” He leans in and back, rests his head on Clark, nestles and sighs.

Dick’s always needed comfort and contact, lives in such a physical world, that Clark can only slide his own arm around him. And he’s only had one or two sips of beer, laughably useless, but the image of Bruce, a wire bat, and a wounded Robin clinging to that cape seeps into him. He gently squeezes Dick’s shoulder, nestles his own head into that soft hair.

They sit that way, not speaking, for a while. They drink. The music lyrical and lonesome from the speakers behind. Outside, the traffic bleats. Inside, the light soft and shadowed.

“Clark?” Dick says, moving his head slightly, looking up.

“Hmm?”

Dick shifts, turning in. “Just…just don’t weird out.”

And it all goes slow motion, as if Clark had sped up without thinking about it, and Dick’s mouth is on his, soft. “Don’t weird out…” An entreaty, whisper soft against his lips, tongue sliding in past the quiet shock.

It’s been years since anyone’s kissed him. Not since college and certainly not since the suit. He’s missed it. And that slight hesitation, that lack of an immediate ‘no’ and recoil, finds Dick straddling him, dancer-quick and graceful. The empties slide to the floor, bounce and roll, as Dick’s hands reach up to Clark’s face and Clark’s hands move towards that waist.

“Dick,” he manages to say, when Dick takes a deep breath, forehead against his. “This isn’t…You’re…”

This isn’t appropriate. You’re too young. Confused.

“You’re not into guys,” Dick says, a yearning disappointment, thumb tracing Clark’s cheekbone, hips swaying against Clark’s thighs.

“I’ve never…but that’s not the point. You’re involved.” 

Dick sighs, leans back in, kisses the side of Clark’s mouth, little nips. “Kory’s cool with it,” he says. “I cleared it with her before I called you.”

His ‘what?’ gets swallowed up by Dick’s tongue before he can voice it.

He’s weak. And Dick’s a good kisser. His hands knead that muscular waist, so slim his fingers almost meet.

“Lame-ass booty call,” Dick laughs, quiet, pulling away slightly. Clark’s lightheaded, breathes long and slow. Dick leans up, thrusts his jacket on the floor, pulls his t-shirt off. He looks down, eyes half-lidded, pulls Clark’s jacket off his shoulders, pulls at the t-shirt until Clark finally helps. Both half-naked, Dick leans back in, kisses him, rubs up against him. Clark bucks, arches slightly, and stills. This is going too far.

“We could call that waitress, do it that way, but Kory wouldn’t be so cool with that,” Dick whispers into his ear, hips urging Clark to keep moving. And he does, small little pushes, up. “But it’d be worth it just to see you eat pu…”

“Dick!” Clark stills. “I don’t…”

“Do casual,” Dick finishes for him. He moves, leans down and into Clark’s chest. “I do,” he says. “Which really kind of sucks. But given the life, it’s either intense or casual.”

“But Clark,” he says, looking up. And he sounds desperate and uncertain. “This isn’t casual.” 

Clark pulls him up, stares into those blue eyes, searches. Dick’s lip quivers slightly.

“Jesus, I really fucked things up, haven’t I?” he says, looking back at Clark. “I just…”

“Dick.” Clark’s hands fall away, he brushes back those bangs, traces that mouth, soothing. “What’s going on?”

“You’ve just been hands-off for so long, Clark...”

“If I’ve ever given you the impression…”

“Property of Bruce Wayne tattooed all over your ass!”

Clark’s mouth falls open, his hands go slack. “Then I’ve really given you the wrong…”

But Dick places a finger on his lips, shushes him. “I saw you first,” he says.

“You were fourteen!”

“And didn’t he remind me of it. Lecturing me on proper behavior and childhood. All while staring burning holes through your cape, waiting for the next convenient breeze to blow by so he could get a good long look.”

Clark sinks back into the couch, rubs his hands on his face. He stares at the ceiling for a while, the streetlight patterns. “You’re projecting,” he says. “He never…he’s not like that.”

Dick puts his hand under Clark’s chin, tilts his head back up. “He doesn’t want to be. But you’re certainly a chink in his moral armor.”

Clark laughs. “Bruce? He sleeps around. With women."

Dick’s eyes narrow. “You’ve noticed.”

“I’m just saying that he’d have no problem parading men around if that’s what he wanted.”

Dick sighs. “Clark, think about it, you’re family.”

Family…but that means that Dick thinks about him as family too, and here he is half-molested with his shirt off and…No.

“What…What did he do to you?” His voice a far off thing.

Dick scrambles off his lap. “Clark, don’t…”

“What did he do to you?”

Dick looks frightened now, but all Clark can feel is that red ball of rage. He’d slept in that house, sat at that breakfast table. He’d allowed it, all while smiling and asking Dick to pass the orange juice. God, he’s stupid, so stupid.

“Nothing!”

“Don’t you protect him. Don’t you dare protect him!” He’s furious, wants to tear the walls down with his bare hands. He’s going to run out of there, hell with the shirt, and burn that house of horrors to the ground.

He’s at the door and it’s half open when he hears, “Roy! It was Roy! I only messed around with Roy!”

Clark turns, hands shaking.

“It was Roy,” Dick says. “We were kids. Clark, Jesus, please…”

And he’s standing in the middle of the room, shivering, voice breaking and pleading.

“Why are you protecting him?” Clark says, unwilling to let go of that burning doubt. “Why?”

“Truth?” Dick says, and he’s laughing, a choking, baying sound. “I tried.”

“Dick, hey…” Clark moves forward, wraps his arms around him.

“I tried,” he says into Clark’s shoulder. “People were saying shit and I was so pissed…and fuck, I tried. And…and…he just told me to put my shirt back on and walked out of the room. He didn’t talk to me for three days after that. Do you know what his silences are like? Bone-crushing. And I felt…fuck!”

He’s shaking, breathing hard, but all dry, and Clark just pets his hair, holds him gently.

“And then you come flying in. What does he do? Invites you into the pool and tells me to go do my homework. Adults only. How blind are you, Clark?”

Clark holds him. “He has to draw those boundaries.” He says this with relief, no matter how much it hurts to see Dick like this. “But you’re wrong about him. He only tolerates me. I annoy him most of the time.”

“In his pants. You’re the pain in the ass he wants. Me, I’m just the pain in the ass that he’s glad grew old enough to kick out the door. I made it to eighteen. He wins.”

So that’s what this is about. Get one over on the old man, an old childhood crush that’s turned into a game. Cain and Abel in the wisteria-hooded gardens of Wayne Manor.

“I’m not coming between you,” Clark says. “Not like this.”

Dick holds onto him. They just stand there, socks and jeans, and Clark notices that Dick’s only half a head shorter than him. When did he get so tall?

“I need another beer,” Dick says. “I’m not good with the drama.” He pulls away, goes back to the kitchen. He watches that lean back glide away. A few years ago, this would have been Clark’s cue to exit. He’s not so good with the drama either. But instead, he goes back to the couch and tries to find his shirt.

He’s about to put it back on when Dick comes back, two beers in hand. “Hey,” he says, “If you put yours back on that means I have to and then we’ll get uncomfortable and retreat into guy-land denial crap. Just leave me the view.”

Guy-land denial sounds pretty good to Clark. “TV?” he says, picking up the remote. “I think Conan’s on.” But he leaves the shirt off, takes the second beer from Dick.

So Conan’s going on about his second trip to Helsinki, the audience is laughing as he attempts to say something in Finnish, when Clark hears something remarkably like “Fuck it”, and feels Dick lean against him, put his hand on his thigh.

Maybe he should leave, but the day drains away and Dick just leans into him, comfortable, touching like he’s always done. Clark misses this too. No one touches him except in combat or the gratitude extended a god.

So he says nothing as Subaru’s new line races past on the screen and Dick turns away from the TV and into him, his mouth tracing a teasing line on his shoulder and then across his chest.

“Don’t say no,” he whispers. “Don’t say no.”

Clark doesn’t. He just puts his beer down and nods. Dick’s mouth moves up to his neck. He tilts his head down, slightly to the side, as Dick rises. He closes his eyes and they kiss, slow and exploring. Dick’s thigh moves across Clark’s lap and he moves Clark’s hand to his ass.

Dick’s ass and his hand is squeezing it and what’s he doing? But Dick whispers, “Don’t say no,” again before he can even think about stopping.

Plus his hands don’t seem to be taking orders from his brain anymore. 

“I’d talk dirty, but I think I’d scare you,” Dick says, rubbing against Clark’s hip and back into his hand. “I’m a talker, Clark. Can I talk to you?” This last part he hisses out, arching and rising, nipple scraping across Clark’s chin and up.

“Lick it. Just stick your tongue out and…yeah.” Clark’s tongue is out, broad and wet, and one long move. And another. Ignores the wisps of hair that drag across his tongue.

Dick shudders, grips his head, hands in his hair. “Knew it…so _sensual_ …God, Clark…”

He swoops down, hands on either side of Clark’s face, and kisses him, hard. “Have to…” And he reaches down and Clark hears the button open, the zipper go down, feels Dick’s now free cock move on his belly.

Clark breathes.

“Shhh,” Dick says. “Don’t be scared, don’t be scared.”

Bounty is the quicker picker-upper, the TV says. Rachel Ray is our special guest. Musical guest, Fall Out Boy.

“Don’t be scared,” Dick says as he reaches for Clark’s jeans, opens them. Dick’s fingers slide down inside. “Hard for me,” he says. “Hard.”

Clark can’t talk back. The words fall on his ears. He lifts up into that hand, says screw it to gravity.

“No mile-high stuff, Clark,” Dick says. “Down, boy.”

Clark feels the couch again. “I…”

“Shhh.” Dick moves down, swirls his tongue in Clark’s navel, blows. “I’m going to suck you, stick my tongue in your…”

“Oh God, stop!”

Dick looks up at him, startled. “Clark, are you going to…?”

“Yeah.” He nods, frantic. “Just…”

Dick rests his head on Clark’s thigh, grins. “From me talking? How long…?”

“A long time.”

“Don’t you…?” And Dick’s hand makes up and down motions in the air.

“I do! It’s just, um, not the same.”

Dick can’t stop grinning. He shakes his head. “I really am taking advantage of you,” he says, but with a growing wonder. “Oh Clark…” He sits down next to him, kisses him long and soft. “We’ll take it slow.”

He doesn’t know what makes his head turn. The distant sounds come in when he filters out the TV, Dick’s heartbeat, his own. But he turns, looking out the window, the curtains drawn, the blinds up.

And a third heartbeat, on the rooftop across, so familiar.

“Let him watch,” Dick says, trying to turn Clark back to him. “Who gives a shit?”

The couch, making out like a teenager. God, so stupid. All a show. Clark stands. The words don’t come as he points, looks at Dick, accusing.

Dick slumps, puts his head in his hands. “Even if I’d closed them, taken this to the back, he would have turned on the cameras. Clark, I didn’t…”

Cameras. Clark scans the room. He finds three.

“You could have taken them out, warned me, something!”

Dick just shakes his head. “I’ve taken them out before. Clark, look, I want this. I don’t care what…”

But Clark’s outside, making that leap. Dick’s quiet plea of “Don’t hurt him” distant as he touches down, Batman just three feet in front of him.


	3. Chapter 3

Clark rises from his crouch, socks slightly damp from the misted rooftop, and crosses his arms across his bare chest.

Batman stands there, cape reflecting the Manhattan light, the rest in shadow.

Okay, two can play that game so Clark says nothing, just glares. The average bad guy cowers in front of him too. But then again, that’s when he has the cape, not when he’s half-naked with his fly open.

Oh. Crap.

Batman’s mouth gets thinner as he almost imperceptibly glances down.

Clark zips up, normal time, still glaring.

Clark raises his fist, knocks on that invisible door between them. “Hello, is Bruce in there? I’d like to talk to him please.”

The gauntlets clench and Batman takes one step forward. But then he stills, reaches up and pushes the cowl back.

“I hate it when you do that. I do not have MPD.” His hair’s all over the place, a little sweaty, but somehow manages to fall into his eyes. He raises one hand and brushes it back, the glove combing through. Looks back at Clark, penetrating and stern, before the hand falls away.

“What do you think you’re doing, Clark?” And he waits.

Yeah, bone-crushing silence is right. Clark feels that worm of guilt that wants to burst out in ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘It just happened’ and ‘I suck, okay?’ All questions of flight dwindle to the ground in the gravity of those blue eyes. But Clark’s feeling pissy and he’s got his own questions that Dick didn’t really answer, and if they’re supposed to be protecting the innocent then why the hell didn’t that apply to Dick in the first place?

So Clark finds that devilish asshole grin that he’s so ashamed that’s in his arsenal without so much as the glint of red anywhere around.

“Getting laid,” he says. “What’s it look like?”

Bruce’s eyes widen, a shock of blue. “He’s vulnerable right now. You’ve no right to take advantage of that.” He turns, faces the skyline. “I expect better of you, Clark.”

Yeah, everybody does. You know, because he’s not human or fallible. Untouchable.

“I really need to tip my PR guy,” Clark says. “He’s doing a hell of a job.”

“Your job’s in Metropolis. Anyone covering for you tonight?”

“Anyone covering Gotham?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I know my priorities.”

Bruce stoops, picks up a piece of gravel. He casually flings it. Clark speeds to the side, catches it where his head used to be. “Cameras being one of them.”

“Someone has to keep an eye on him.”

“In his bedroom? That someone shouldn’t be you.”

“You never made it that far, Clark. You didn’t see enough backseat action in Smallville that you can’t observe propriety?”

Backseat action? As in high school? Bruce may be highly intuitive, but that was a total miss. Clark can’t stop the laugh that starts deep within. “I was a virgin, you moron!”

Bruce whirls, snarls, steps towards Clark who backs away still clutching his belly, full of laughter. Shit, he just called Bruce a moron. God. He feels the wall beside the roof door against his back. Much too funny.

But Bruce isn’t laughing. Instead he smiles that vicious smile that makes all humor pick up its skirts and run away in terror. “I’d be embarrassed too,” he says softly, stiletto edge.

“What?” Clark manages to say, the laugh fluttering to the gravel-strewn roof.

“Taking it up the ass from Luthor. Who’d admit to that?”

And if that laugh fluttered, it crawls off and dies now. Jesus. Whatever Lex might be now, cruel and dangerous, full of nothing but hatred and his own brand of cold righteousness, he’d been different once. That part of his past Bruce has no right to, no right to cheapen it, no right to put it under his sordid surveillance. Plus he’s dead wrong. Show him, show…

“Just like Dick won’t admit to taking it from you?”

Bruce’s fist lands three inches from his head, cracks the brickface.

“Ooh, that had to hurt,” Clark says.

Bruce’s face a grimace just inches from his own. “What did he say?”

Clark doesn’t answer, just smiles, leans languid against the brick. Just a pleasant conversation.

“What. Did. He. Say.”

This is the part where Bruce should lose it. But he relaxes, fist uncurling until it’s just a hand resting against a wall. One corner of his mouth goes up. “I knew you were too good to be true,” he says. “You’re quite the player, aren’t you, Clark?”

And he leans down and in, breath ghosting Clark’s neck, his throat. “Well, so am I.”

Bruce’s other hand reaches down, caresses Clark’s thigh. His breath moving towards Clark’s ear. “If that’s what you’re after, you don’t need to go to New York to get it.”

Clark’s fingers curl into the brick, holding onto something. He can’t move. Pinned by a breath and glove-tipped fingers. “Gotham’s just as far,” he says.

“Hmmm,” the breath says again. “Is it?”

The hand moves up. Clark lets out a breath as, for the second time that night, his jeans open.

“I don’t need to tell you how beautiful you are,” the breath says again. “All that rose-colored innocence just a façade, Clark. You know. You’ve been playing with us all, haven’t you?”

Oh God, Bruce knows what he’s doing. The hand moving up, and then down, on his…on his…Oh God.

“Look at that flush. So pretty for me, Clark. So pretty…”

“B…Bruce?” Behind him, a brick shatters. His fingers meet as his mouth opens, gasps.

“Shhh, no more pretending. We’re finally being honest.” The breath ghosts his neck again. “The things I can do to you. ”

Bruce pulls back slightly, hand still braced against the wall, his other still moving. He just looks until Clark turns his head to the side, looks away.

“Let’s make this a little more…interesting.”

The wave of green nausea hits Clark like a fist. His knees buckle until gravel cuts into them. He’s bleeding, leaning into Bruce’s thigh. Bruce puts a hand under his chin, tilts it up. He rubs his thumb along Clark’s cheek. “Just enough to even this out,” he says. “I won’t hurt you.”

But it does hurt. His fingers clutch at the cape, pull uselessly.

And Dick was right. He couldn’t have, not if this is what’s lurking beneath that stoic exterior. Something that he keeps locked away, a Pandora’s box. Clark thought he knew, thought he knew…

He manages to look up. “Is this what you want, Bruce? Like this?”

And Jesus, he’s crying. Sure it hurts, but stupid, so stupid. He’s had the K pulled on him how many times? And he always struggles to get up, always.

“It’s okay,” he says. As if Bruce cares, but still. “It’s okay. You’re still my friend. I love you. It’s okay.”

He’s saying this like he’s talking to a cornered dog, a frightened child. Forgiveness for the scratches and bites, their nature.

“It’s okay.”

Bruce’s hand trembles, the thumb stops on his cheek. His lips part as if to say something and then close. His eyes widen slightly. He opens up the belt and stows the sickness away, closes that Pandora lid. He kneels down, hand still on Clark’s face.

“Do you need anything? Water?”

Clark leans into the touch, closes his eyes, breathes. “No, I’m good.”

“Clark…”

And it’s just a brush, lingering, lips on his. “I’m sorry.”

Bruce stands, replaces the cowl, the mask. He opens up the belt again, the other side, tosses something lightly by Clark’s knees.

“The code’s 1138. To shut it off,” he says. “Go back to him. You’ll have your privacy.”

It’s a remote. Clark just stares at it. Stupidly. But, you know, it’s hard enough to face the K when he’s all adrenaline pumped. A little wooziness is allowed.

He hears the boots run, a swish of line, and he’s gone.

The roof door slams open. 

“Motherfucker! He K’d you. He fucking K’d you!”

Dick sprays gravel as he runs, comes to Clark’s side. He’s only in jeans and his jacket, no shirt, tennis shoes, from somewhere, unlaced. He looks down as Clark stands up. Clark’s jeans are still open.

“You zipped up,” he says. “I saw.”

And Dick says this so calmly, observational, as if he expects Clark to say ‘Yes, it is nice weather, isn’t it?’ or ‘Yeah, how ‘bout them Yankees?’ Clark just laughs. Not so different from the old man. Who isn’t so old. And maybe Clark should just go sit on Everest for a while and think. Cool air would do him good.

“I provoked him, Dick. It’s all right.” He leans down, retrieves the remote, zips up. “Here,” he says, handing it over. “The shut-off code’s 1138.”

Dick just stares at it, incredulous. “He just _gave_ this to you?”

“We had a little heart-to-heart,” Clark says.

Dick’s eyes narrow. “You mean you sucked him off. What did I tell you?”

“Never came up,” Clark says as they head for the open roof door. “Hey, what’s on after Conan? I always forget.”


	4. Chapter 4

Clark follows Dick back inside the apartment, shuts the door. The TV is still on, but Dick sheds his jacket, lets it fall to the floor. He turns off the TV. They don’t talk. This silence so unlike Bruce’s penetrating glare that chokes all words away, but soft and full of promise.

Everest. Maybe Mt. McKinley. But Clark’s done running. He’s run, flown over the Earth, and yet there’s only return. He can float in space, watch the world move at its own pace, far away, but the perspective never changes when he touches down.

So he breathes, stands there, as Dick aims the remote and pushes 1138. And the electronic buzz, that Clark hadn’t even known he’d been aware of, hushes.

“Are they off?” Dick says, turning.

“I think so, yeah.”

“Then be with me,” Dick says. He doesn’t move, just waits until Clark steps forward, until they’re chest to chest, not touching.

And he shouldn’t. Bruce is off brooding somewhere, in some corner of New York or maybe on his way back to Gotham, but Clark knows that the possibility of another dose of K is the least of his problems. He’s due to stand watch at the Watchtower in three days and it’ll be Bruce’s shift too. 

In other words, work is going to suck for a very, very long time.

This is a test that he’s going to fail, no matter what answer he chooses. Multiple choice and ‘none of the above’ not even an option.

So he chooses to take his hand, reach out, and touch the side of Dick’s face. Just like that. They don’t need to do any more. Just touching, no sex stuff.

Who’s he kidding? Seriously.

So he leans in and kisses him, shivering slightly though he’s only been cold when the heat seeps out of that station, distress signal, and the universe reminds him he’s just a pinprick in the fabric of space, the cape a joke, a baby’s blanket lingering in the hull of a lifepod and everyone gone until warm hands pick him up and a voice says, “Hush now, everything’s going to be all right.”

Dick kisses him back, whimpers, arms flinging around his neck until the toes of his unlaced tennis shoes are the only thing on the ground.

And then nothing is as Clark wraps his arms around his waist, and they float to the back, that open dark door, ajar.

There’s a bed pushed up against the wall, blanket pulled down. The sheets have robots on them. A lava lamp, red glow, on the bedside table. A clothes rod, hangers haphazard, runs the length of the wall away from the bed.

“Junior suite,” Dick whispers against his neck, a soft grin. “It’s either a tiny ass bedroom or a fucking huge closet, take your pick.”

And Clark can hear the ghost image of Bruce, sitting at the console of the cave, saying, “Language, Dick. Language,” as Dick flips off the mat, showing off for company, Clark in the corner.

Clark puts Dick down, sits on the foot of the bed. He looks up as he puts two fingers inside that wellworn denim waistband and pulls. He kisses the skin just two inches up from the hip, the jeans low-slung, and his lips are a butterfly, a hummingbird, as they glance, little touches to the navel, the soft swirl of hair around it, wisps.

Dick’s breath shallows, heartbeat racing up, as he puts his hand in Clark’s hair, combs his fingers through it. “So gentle,” he says, awe and want. “God, Clark, you’re so fucking beautiful.”

And why do people always say that? Like he’s a girl? Something to be violated and cherished, fruit ripe in the mouth. He’s got the chiseled chin now, the arms. He can hold a building up as people scatter away from it, pluck airplanes out of the air before they hit the ground. Dudley DoRight, they snicker, as if he can’t hear. Boy Scout. And the other whispers, ‘So fucking beautiful. God.’ As if he’s Apollo, a sunbeam, gentle and wrathful, when he’s been Icarus more times than he can count. The earth pockmarked, craters from his body. A man who fell out of the sky one day and who keeps falling. Futility and hubris. A body at sea and breathing.

“So fucking beautiful…,” Lex has whispered in his ear, thinking him unconscious and beaten. “So fucking…”

Fucking and beautiful all mixed together and they’re just words hurled at him as the fingers touch and then pull away. Lex snarling at him to get up as he opens his eyes.

“Face me like a man,” he says. “Face me…”

And he gets up again because he always has to get up. It’s expected. Gets up and walks away as the sirens blare in the distance, people in need.

But he needs. Backburner, the kettle boiling and untended, a life, just his, that he can never have.

“Where are you going, you freak? Where are you going? Bastard!”

Where is he going? His tongue darts out of his mouth, tastes the salt sweat of Dick’s navel, indentation, womb-mark and human. 

He has one too. A different planet, but all grapes on the vine. Connected. The tendrils of life. Lightspeed and slower radio waves, noises in the dark.

“Do you believe in life on other planets, Clark?” Lex says. They’re lying on a blanket, the edge of Crater Lake. The telescope forgotten in the truck bed, a distance behind them.

Their fingers brush.

“It doesn’t matter,” Bruce says. They’re in some back alley in Gotham. “The past shapes us, but we shape the future. What matters is what we do now.”

A scream and they both run towards it. Boots the same cadence, a rhythm. Together. One. Light and shadow. The streetlights. A frightened heartbeat not their own.

They make a difference.

“Hey,” Dick says. “Be with me.”

Dick leans down, pushes him back on the bed. Four walls. Shirts on a hanger. He kisses him, soft. Clark still hasn’t found any words.

“Be with me,” Dick says again. “I’m here, Clark. Here.”

And he is.


End file.
